When he came off the phone to his son, David Carter made a quick call to his new head of security. "No fuck ups, okay? Or you know what happens."

"No fuck ups, Mr. Carter."

"Good." David put the phone down and settled back in his leather office chair. He prodded the buzzer on his desk and said: "Rochelle, put some champagne in the fridge, will you? I've a feeling we'll have earned it by the end of tomorrow."

At the end of the day's work, David Carter descended in the plush elevator from his top-floor office and climbed into the back of his polished black limousine, which drove him away from the Mile End stadium at a stately pace. Unlike his son, David had no particular idealised affection for the countryside, and so he lived in a penthouse apartment in central London, with stunning, million-pound views of the Thames. It was a tall, brutalist building of iron and glass – a reflection of its owner's personality: stolid and immoveable. Lethally stubborn in the face of progress.

When he got home, David slipped out of his jacket and settled back in an armchair with a glass of whisky. He loosened his tie. Then, with his phone, he switched on his elaborate hi-fi system. Vivaldi, a favourite of his. It calmed and soothed him.

Sometimes he shared this exquisite masterpiece of modernist design that was his apartment with a woman named Felicia, a girlfriend who was a good twenty-something years younger than him, and who clearly fancied herself a trophy wife in training. But David wasn't going to let himself be conned like that again. Never.

Anyway, Felicia wasn't around tonight. She liked to do her own thing, and often went away at weekends. It didn't bother David. He didn't let it.

That night, he slept like a baby. The Popovs did not even cross his mind as he settled back in his deluxe king-size bed.

*

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Wayne. He knew he was being stupid, and that he was taking this whole stupid thing too seriously. But all the same, he did not sleep. For several hours he paced the chilly marble floors of his mansion and convinced himself that he heard suspicious rustlings in the trees and foliage outside, or a sinister crunch of gravel, or the throb of an approaching engine. But the only people loitering outside were the security guards. It was two in the morning before Wayne finally retired to his bed. But his brain was still whirling. He lay back, staring at the white ceiling, waiting for the dawn.

*

Match day was cool and bright. Perfect pitch conditions. The air around the stadium hummed with anticipation; the fast food vendors did a roaring trade, as did the local pubs and eateries. A local derby like this one was always a special event. Police in stab vests patrolled the streets, as well as the heightened private security in and around the Mile End stadium.

Wayne Carter got to the stadium a good thirty minutes before the rest of the team, accompanied by his own bodyguards. Almost unconsciously, his gaze darted around the place like a startled rabbit, scanning every nook and cranny for lurking assailants. He hated what that note had turned him into: a paranoid, quivering wreck. He wanted the match to be over so that he could get on with his life. Get this season over with, and then take a much-needed holiday. Maybe the Costa Del Sol. Somewhere far away from Mile End and his dad. And the Popovs.

In the empty changing room, Wayne looked at himself in the floor-length mirror. What a sight he was. Only twenty-two, but his blond hair was greying at the temples, and there were bags under his eyes. He shouldn't have to put up with shit like this. Nobody should.

But before he could get too deep into his self-pity, the rest of the team started filing into the changing room, and all at once the air was filled with sweary banter and pre-match good cheer.

"Right, look alive you lazy bastards! The gaffer's coming down." That was Luke Grimsby, looking edgier than usual. These local derbies were good for commerce, but they weren't good for his blood pressure.

Like soldiers on parade, the team lined up along the wall of the changing room to await the arrival of the big man. David Carter strode into the room, all smiles, his suit sharp and his hair slicked back. "Alright boys?" he asked. "Thought I'd pop down to say all the best, and if you feel like kneeing one of those Chiswick wankers in the balls, then I'll be glad to turn a blind eye."

This elicited polite chuckles. Everyone was on their best behaviour.

"Right!" said Grimsby, clapping his hands. "Enough faffing about."

And the team dispersed. All, that is, except Wayne, who hung around to talk to his dad. It was obvious that David had something to say.

"You okay, Wayne? You look like shit," David observed with a crocodile smile.

"Thanks. I feel like shit."

"Well, so long as you don't play like shit that's fine." David laughed at his own joke.

"I'm playing," said Wayne with a shrug.

"Yes you are. You're a good lad. Right! I'm off. I'll see you in the director's lounge after the match." David turned to go, but Wayne stopped him.

"Dad?"

"What?"

Wayne looked at his father, who was now sardonically arching an eyebrow. "Nothing," he mumbled. He stood there, hanging his head, as David strolled out of the changing room, whistling a merry tune.

"Come on Wayne, get a wriggle on," said Grimsby. The two men shared a glance, and there was an unspoken acknowledgement between them that something was going to happen. Both of them knew that this was no ordinary match, although the rest of the team seemed unaware of that fact.

One by one, they filed out onto the pitch, where they were met by the cheers and jeers of the crowd.

*

The Popovs, all three of them, were in attendance. Even though many of the Mile End and Chiswick fans did not know them by sight, they carried with them such an air of authority that it provoked awed silence in just about everyone who saw them. Mikhail strode through the stadium, stony-faced, flanked by his sons. Like David Carter, each of them was immaculately dressed in the finest suits, with gold watches, designer sunglasses and a host of other luxury accesories. They looked important, so they were important. Like the Red Sea, the crowds parted before them as they made their way through the stadium and up to the director’s box. They had their own security detail which was, by necessity, smaller than David's, but no less vicious. If anyone so much as looked at Mikhail funny, they would have been escorted out into the car park, or into a nearby vacant toilet cubicle, and given the beating of a lifetime.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

David watched them from across the room. His merciless glare was trained on Mikhail. Mikhail Popov, the bastard who had tried to put the frighteners on him. Who had tried to get to him through his son. Well, two could play at that game. As the ref blew his whistle and the match kicked off, David kept his gaze fixed on the Russian. Popov was chewing gum – an ugly habit, David thought. But then again, maybe it was all part of the image he sought to convey? It's an old adage that you only stay on top for as long as other people think you're on top.

David was conscious of a presence behind him. He spun round like a startled cat, but sighed with relief when he saw it was only Rochelle. "I thought you might like a glass of champagne, Mr. Carter," she said.

"You read my mind, sweetheart."

The game was ugly from the very first minute. Chiswick took possession early on, and battled hard to break through Mile End's defence. The ref had his work cut out for him – he dished out two yellow cards in the first five minutes. One of them was to Chiswick's secret weapon, Ronnie Vincent. "The hellraiser," the media called him. A vicious cunt if ever there was one. He would have flattened a pretty-boy like Fabian Lorenzo. Fortunately, Lorenzo was laid up at home following his clash with Wayne the previous day.

Ronnie Vincent liked to play up to his "tough guy" image. In reality, he was a mediocre player with a mean streak, but he somehow managed to convince the punters that he was a real East End gangster, both Kray twins rolled into one. He was tall and stony faced, which certainly helped. Like Mikhail Popov, he looked the part. In fact, Ronnie's reputation had even led to a few cameos in a couple of British gangster movies, and rumour had it he would soon be leaving the world of professional sport behind him to become an actor. The fact that he had the personality of a plank of plywood had done little to hinder his ambitions.

Most celebrities couldn’t get away with the kind of stuff that Ronnie Vincent got up to. Bags of cocaine on the dashboard of his Rolls Royce, in full view of paparazzi cameras. Assaulting waiters in fashionable London nightclubs. A porn star on each arm as he walked the red carpet at the Sports Personality Awards.

The point was that Ronnie Vincent played football – and lived his life – like a man with nothing to lose. He didn't have a reputation to think of; if anything, his borderline psychotic approach to the game was just another facet of his media savvy. This would probably be his last season, so he might as well go out with a bang.

Of all the Chiswick players, Ronnie Vincent was the one Wayne was most wary of. He gave him a wide berth. In fact, Wayne's gameplay that day was pretty subdued. He lacked his usual drive. Perhaps it was because the crowd wasn’t taunting him today. They had reserved their ire for Ronnie Vincent, chanting PSYCHO... PSYCHO... again and again. Ronnie lapped it up.

Almost by chance, Wayne came into possession of the ball. It was a back pass from Abike, and Wayne wasn't sure what to do with it. He had no intention of pressing on toward the goal. But he found himself surrounded by Chiswick players all the same, with no one to pass to. That's when Ronnie Vincent came into view. They made eye contact and Ronnie Vincent – the famous stone face – smiled. A hideous grin. And he winked at Wayne. That's when Wayne knew what was about to happen.

He managed to pull off a deft feint, controlling the ball and manoeuvring it away from Ronnie. After all, in spite of his meanness, Ronnie just wasn't much of a player. But Ronnie pressed on like a wolf scenting blood. He chased after Wayne with undisguised malevolence. The crowd saw it, too, and their chants of PSYCHO increased in volume and frequency.

The word echoed in Wayne's brain. He shouldered his way past a couple of Chiswick defenders and almost made it to their goal. He was just drawing back his right foot to hoof the ball past the keeper when Ronnie Vincent caught up to him.

It was a moment that would be repeated endlessly on social media and the TV news. A moment, the commentators called it, that would live in infamy. It was gameplay like this, one armchair pundit posited, that brought the beautiful game into disrepute. Players like Ronnie Vincent were a disgrace to the game and should be banned.

When Ronnie Vincent's boot connected with Wayne Carter's shin, it did so with such force that it snapped the bone in two. Later, spectators in the stands would try to convince each other that they had in fact heard the bone breaking, but of course that was impossible. They saw it, though. They saw Wayne's right leg bend all the way back, as Ronnie Vincent's savage tackle took his left leg out from under him, too, and sent him sprawling.

It didn't help that Wayne landed with his full weight on the broken bone, bending it even further out of shape. Time stood still as the pain jetted through him.

All the other players on the pitch knew instinctively that this was bad. They stood like statues as the ball rolled to a halt just shy of the goal.

Wayne let out a shriek of animalistic agony. Tears streaked down his face. He felt as though he had been consumed by flames. People had their phones out, filming the whole thing, trying to capture the perfect angle of this tableau of pain. Ronnie Vincent stood by, open-palmed, shrugging at the crowd, as if to say, Well, what did you expect me to do?

The ref stopped play while the medics came jogging onto the pitch. There wasn't much they could do. They studied Wayne's mangled leg with undisguised horror. The bone was protruding through the skin, like a wisdom tooth bursting through a ruined gum. Blood streaked down what was left of Wayne's shin. He continued to cry and howl with agony.

David Carter stood in the director's box with his palms pressed flat against the glass, watching as his son writhed on the grass below.

"David..." It was Max Linley, his friend and confidant. A man he would have trusted with his life. "David, I'm so sorry."

"What are you waiting for?" David demanded. "Get the fucking ambulance."

Ronnie Vincent accepted his red card with good grace and withdrew from the pitch to cheers, applause and boos.

The thing with broken bones is that even the slightest movement can do so much more damage. With that in mind, the medics were in no rush to stretcher Wayne off. The ambulance was idling outside the stadium, its engine throbbing loudly, ready to go. The traffic between stadium and hospital would no doubt be very heavy, so the sooner they hit the road, the better. All the same, it still took a few tortuous minutes to get things moving.

Wayne was now lying on his back on the cold grass, tears streaming down his face, howling heavenward in his agony. The rest of the stadium seemed to be in shock. Of course, the TV cameras had been respectfully aimed away from him, and parents were covering their kids’ eyes, but plenty of fans had their mobile phones out to record the event for posterity. Many of the belligerent spectators who had heckled him during previous matches now stood in horrified silence.

The paramedics came charging onto the pitch and were met with a few muted cheers, but they were all about the business. They fitted a splint into place – to more animalistic howls from Wayne – and finally slid him onto a stretcher. As he was carried off the pitch, the uncanny silence was broken by polite applause from all around the stadium. The ambulance was waiting for him in the car park, its rear doors hanging open. The paramedics murmured meaningless reassurances in his ear. He would be fine, they told him. He was in good hands.

David Carter turned away from the window, the undrunk glass of champagne still in his hand. He looked over at the Popovs, who were sitting on a trio of plush seats, watching everything. It was their doing, of course. David had underestimated their capabilities. He had also overestimated their intelligence. This had been a risky, ballsy play. And now they had declared war.

Max Linley was saying something. David spun back toward him: “What?”

“I said, aren’t you going with Wayne?”

David took a slow, deep breath. It was his way of centring himself; of regaining a semblance of calm. “Yes,” he said softly, “I am.” He glanced back at the Popovs, and saw that a thin smile had insinuated its way across Mikhail’s face. Without another word, David left the room.